Judge — November 20, 1915 — page 6: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE ture worm that the Cape Cod dealers breed to impart the proper antique effect in spinning wheels and four posters. 5 We shall continue to swear by our Thanksgiving pie. Prefer- ably the kivered of the species. Contrary to the Greeks’ proverb—we are not what we are nor what we seem—we are what we eat. Rice won the war for the Japs —vodka lost it for the Russians. Cheese and macaroni produce the glory that was Rome. Beer and sausage engender the mysticism and music of Germany. A grape diet will secure us everlasting youth —a milk cure give us a spiritual fitness that sets us looking at the stars. The shredded bamboo and riddled rattan that we serve our little ones at breakfast will make them, in time, into mental and physical Sandows. Whatever may be the truth or untruth in the theory that food makes or unmakes character, we must uncover to the pie eaters. We give thanks for them and to them. Theseemay be the ambrosias on which the gods feasted. With the passing of the Thanksgiving pie, who knows that our Americanism may die out and we shall become as the pie-less nations—full of spaghetti and art rather than pumpkin and energy? This year, at all events, we shall still absorb our great national sweet—inhale its crusty golden envelope and be glad that we are alive. Says Old P. G. Pester: TAMMERERS are useful in breaking news to bereaved relatives. There are no hopeless fools. One fool has more hope than forty wise men. The average self-made man acts as if he had been made in the remote backwoods. The small-town big man is great merely because his associates are so trivial. At this stage of the game an apostle of peace seems to be without honor in any country. The pessimist insists upon turning his sugar-coated pills wrong side out, so that he may taste the bitter instead of the sweet. Unpopular Nightingales SNORE is an impediment in one’s sleep—or, rather, in the sleep of oth It is the midnight music that escapes when the door of the face is ajar. It is a special gift. Some have it by nature; others have it to put up with. The very people who, while awake, scarcely utter a sound, will, when night comes, set the rafters reverberating. Their repose is terrific. Darkness seems to give them courage, aggressiveness. The meek and timid lamb becomes a roaring lion. VEGETARIAN TURKEY ’ And these nasal organists are modest about their accomplish- ment. You cannot get them to admit their virtuosity. ‘The bed- fellow who whiffles like a bassoon all night long will protest next morning that he hasn’t a nose for music. Though you punch him while his deep diapason is in full rumble, he will disclaim the solo. Indeed, this peculiar prowess is usually kept a secret until there is some great revealing experience, such as marriage, or a night on a Pullman, or both. Little do the happy couple suspect, as they listen to the closing strains of their wedding march, what will be the next strains they will hear! For in the still hours of the night, many a dashing cavalier proves to be a human trombone, and many an airy, fairy creature uses her daintily powdered nose-bud for symphonic pur- poses. And many a golden romance is consummated in a duet of staid cacophony. —Lavwton Mackall. AMONG THE MISSING comichooks.¢